Experiments With Killer Notebooks
by LucklessRomance
Summary: I'm not a genius; don't ask why they flock my way. I just think it's funny to watch people panic over fake killer notebooks with my partner in crime and purveyor of natural intelligence, the Almighty High-on-Himself Light Yagami, and our Task Force of equally smart gentlemen. That's really it. College is great, guys. (Some OFC/Light romance, mostly nonsensical bullcrap.)
1. Chapter 1

Oh... _college_. Y'know, people tend to dramatize about it. They'll say; "It isn't like High School! In fact, it's so much better!" But I just don't see it. I've had to wonder if there's something wrong with me, that maybe the glass is just always half empty whenever I look at it, but if I'm wrong than I've convinced myself pretty damn well that I'm right. When I walk around the UCL quad, with the big ol' White House looking building, stretching around the walkways and the broken up sections of grass with all the beauty of London's signature Victorian styles, I see one of two things; a diversity of culture, and a great deal less diversity in cliques. That's right; when you graduate and go to college, most of the time the pretty people still hang out with the pretty people, the jocks still hang out with jocks, the nerds still hang out with their computers, and the people without a cause (yoo hoo, that's me!) still wander around like complete dumbasses. I can tell you, right off the top of my head, how many windows there are on the White House surrounding main campus. And it isn't because I'm super smart (nope, not me), it's just because I've counted them at least once every day since I flew in from America a week ago. Why? Because I have _nothing better to do_.

I have no direction. I don't even know how I got into the University College London in the first place. Sure, I made good grades in High School and didn't cause too much trouble, but then I went to take my ACT and SAT tests and... something weird happened. I got really good marks. Like, _creepy _good. My parents had to sit me down for an intervention and ask me, in their most understanding, you-won't-get-into-trouble voices possible, if I had cheated.

I didn't, by the way.

I just got lucky.

But that type of luck is a curse, mind you, because once my scores came through and my mother (against my wishes) started sending in college applications to every University ranked by a number at least under fifty, my scores told a story about a girl genius when, in fact, my story is nothing like that at all.

I am not a genius.

Repeat: _Not _a genius.

But hey, I don't know one poor American girl whose dream isn't to go to London, and that poor American girl's dream is what finds me in my first class, on the first day, at UCL... even if I may not deserve it.

So here I sit.

I was kind to myself and made Sociology my first subject. Like I said before, I'm a very ungenius girl who does a very good job at ungeniusing up whatever place she walks into, but Sociology is one of those classes where it's at least somewhat difficult to look like a complete idiot. At the most basic level, it's just observation; watching what people do in certain situations, getting into big sociological debates about whether or not it's "normal", and then deciding whether culture and other factors have anything to do with it.

In other words, it's all about who can make the most educated guess.

"Your final grade in this class will be a culmination of four working parts," my Professor says, "In-class participation, exams, essays, and the group project."

The first day of class. The day when Professors focus on scaring their pupils into the submissive bodies of hardworking, clever students, by way of a syllabus. I'm not saying it doesn't work either; the first day of class in High School always scared me. It was the overwhelming representation on three to four pages of just how hellish the class was going to be.

My stress threshold has never been able to handle it.

In fact, the only reason why I'm not popping a nerve-ending right now is just because I'm easily distracted. By the Professor's hair, to be exact. It's bloody longer than mine. The top half is pulled back into a ponytail to keep away from his eyes, but the bottom half flows free, down to the curve between his shoulder blades. Thick, straight-as-pins, salt-and-pepper locks that are tossed with an Elvish grandeur.

My Sociology professor could be an older Elrond from Middle Earth for all I know.

And then there's the beard. The _beard_. It's one of those perfectly trimmed, upside down triangles, collaborating so well with the base of his face that it acts like an extended chin. A super-extenda chin. A chin Jay Leno would be both jealous and proud of.

"Your work in this class will not be divided equally, however," says Leno the Elvish King, "for example, fifty percent of your final grade is dedicated completely to the results of your group project. Which is why I will be assigning partners today."

A heavily bored atmosphere suddenly morphs into a dense bubble of apprehension. The students who had their chins resting on their hands start to wiggle uncomfortably in their chairs. Others who were once playing games on Facebook abandon their screens to stare at the Professor, hoping to see the hints of a joke on his face. Do you really have to wonder why?

No one likes group projects. I would think, most especially, not at a college like this. More than half of the people who go here commute from their home countries or towns; hardly a soul knows another. There are only the few, egregiously extroverted personalities that attempt to make friends on the first day.

And from the looks of it, no one in here is an egregious extrovert.

The Professor doesn't show any recognition toward the complete shift in the room, though I doubt if he really hasn't noticed. "When your names are called, acknowledge your partner, but please stay in your seats." He lifts up a clipboard and calls out, "Allen, Leisha and Zecheriah, Tevin."

Look at that, we're playing the alphabet game. That's super original.

"Buehler, Margaret," yup, there I am; almost always at the head of the roll. And...? "Yagami, Light."

… The hell kind of name is that?

I start looking for the culprit, first at the front of the class, where no one seems to be trying to catch anyone's eye and the only people who are looking are just as curious to place the name with the face. I swivel in my seat (a _pop _releases a crick out of my spine very nicely in the process) when almost immediately, I spot him. He has his arm half raised to catch my attention. The first thing that runs through my head is that Justin Bieber has escaped Canadian borders and is now terrorizing group projects in a beginning Sociology class.

It's only the first thought, though, because once I take a closer look at him, well...

I'm pretty sure this kid isn't Justin Bieber.

He has the right hair for it; amber-gold with just enough fringe to frame around his eyes and cheekbones. But the eyes are just the things that throw me off that train. They're too intense. A sort of rust-brown, "you'll never beat me at a staring contest" intense. A phantom itch crawls up in the inside of my wrist, bringing with it at least five other itches that don't get relieved no matter how much I try to scratch them.

The only thing that helps is looking away.

I only keep my eyes off him for a space of a second, and when I look back he's busy with his laptop, eyes lidded enough to where their intensity is too muted to be noticed.

Once the Professor reaches an impasse at the surnames that start with M and N, (there were a few chuckles when a partnership had one last name starting with F and the other U; yes, we're all so mature) he explains the rules; "This is what the group project is all about: each pairing is to decide on and conduct a Sociological experiment. The content and the means by which you experiment are completely up to you, as long as your subjects are strangers with whom you have no original affiliation, and that you keep their identities anonymous. Be warned," the already stormy atmosphere tinges with electricity, "Your partnerships have been given to you today so that you might start your work on this project immediately. This is to be a semester-long ordeal. Any experiments crammed into the space of a week will be easily plucked out. If you want to succeed in this class," he gives a very pointed stare to a few, unlucky students. "Meet my expectations."

The reactions the Professor gets aren't undeserved. A whole semester working with a partner? The whole class might be filled with murderous intent by the end of these next four months.

I might be filled with murderous intent.

Worse, Mr. Bieber hair and rusty eyes might be filled with murderous intent.

Without thinking about how obvious I'll look, I turn my head over my shoulder to glance at Light once again. He's nonplussed. It's as if the cloud of impending doom has parted a cubicle of space for the light to shine down on him and only him.

His parent's had received God-given inspiration when they named him.

"Well end class early today," the Professor says, "I hope to see all of you next week."

Psh. A lie if I've ever heard one. A good five or ten of his students are probably on their way to the Administrator's office right now to drop the class. I can't say I blame them.

The thought crosses my mind as well... .

I sit still in my seat as the room clinks, clanks, and zips with the commotion of students rushing to get out. Several partners meet up in the aisles, and just looking at their encounters makes me queasy. Can you imagine that conversation? "Hi, guess it looks like we're going to have to work together for the next four months, so let's come to the agreement that we won't kill each other no matter how badly we want to. Oh, by the way, have you ever had a history of psychosis? No? Great, let's be friends!"

It's shiver inducing.

What's worse is that there's no way around it. So I sit, like I'm sitting in a cell and my executioner is on his way to claim my head, looking to and fro from the wall clock to my peers stepping down the left aisle in neat single-file. Every second is struck between my ears like the bells of Notre Dame.

Until I catch sight of two, thin legs in a pair of khaki pants coming my way.

I have to remind myself not to look away. Conspicuous awkwardness mixed with the inevitable terror of this conversation wouldn't be the most savory mixture, especially when this Light Yagami kid doesn't look like he's capable of the simplest social malfunctions.

In fact, he's completely at ease.

"Margaret, right?" he asks.

He leans against the desk next to me, half-sitting, half-standing. The strap of a messenger bag crosses his sweater, the bag itself weighed down so heavily that he has to heave it onto the desktop. The poor guy is going to get scoliosis in his thirties if he doesn't stop hauling that thing around; it looks fit to burst.

"Uh, no," I say, "not Margaret. Never Margaret. Maggie or Mags or anything that isn't, uh... Margaret."

Do you see what I did there? Do you see my communication skills? I'd be an Olympic gold medalist if they had a category in word fumbling.

"You don't like Margaret?" And whether he intends it as a statement or question, I'm not sure.

"Honestly, Margaret is too classy for me."

His head is half cocked, as if he's trying to decide whether or not I'm being serious.

"Maggie it is then," he says. "Do you work, Maggie?"

Jeez, he doesn't miss a beat.

"No," I say, "I only just got to London like, a week ago, so job hunting hasn't really been the biggest priority."

"So you're schedule is usually open."

He could have shoved a balloon filled with scalding hot water into my chest and poked it with a needle. Is it just me, or is it a little rude to assume that just because someone doesn't have a job it means they aren't busy? I mean, I guess I can see where he's coming from; I may veer a little on the socially inept side, and I haven't really been in the market for friends and parties every other night, but... but...

But I'm a total loser and he's right.

However, would I go so far as to lose all my dignity in one setting? Never.

So I say, "mostly," and hope he gets the point.

Light grins a grin that's too big for his own good. "That's good; I was worried we might run into a lot of time crunches. I'm taking both afternoon and evening classes pretty much every day except for weekends, so trying to schedule in time for study and homework alone can be difficult."

Yes, I understand sir, you're very busy.

My curiosity gets the better of me, though, and I have to ask, "How many credits are you taking, exactly?"

"42 ESPs."

Holy mother of marmalade. 42? Like I said, I've only been in London for a week, so I'm not exactly the master of translating European credit scales to American, but that's at least 24 US credits, probably eight classes. You have to get special Dean approval for that kind of workload!

So he _is _a busy dude.

"42," I say, in the best nonchalant voice I can come up with, "and how long have you been suicidal?"

Light laughs, an airy sound that pats me on the head like a puppy. "Don't worry, I'm not. Off the top of my head I'm pretty sure that I have free time on Wednesday, sometime between two and four. We could get together then and start brainstorming."

"Sure."

"Great. Do you have a phone on you?"

I pull my iPhone out of my pocket and type in the four-digit code, ready to ask for his number, when he steals the device right out of my hands.

Steals, _my _phone.

I'm about to tell him just how rude that was. I'm about to accuse his mother for never teaching him manners. Hell, I'm about to make fun of his _hair_, when the shock of it settles in my throat and swallows up my accusations like a black hole. He types unknown numbers on the keyboard with thumbs that learned how to produce light speed before NASA, and it only takes those few moments before the thing is cupped in my hands again, as if it had never left in the first place.

"I'll text you," Light says, shooting me one last smile before turning out of the row of desks, bag hanging at his hip in drooped exhaustion.

I have to blink probably ten times before I call after him. "Wait. Don't you need my number?"

"I looked it up in your phone already. See you Wednesday."

I have to watch him walk out of the room in stupid, slack-jawed surprise. I just have to.

And do you know the thing that makes that stupid, slack-jawed surprise even worse? He knows exactly what he did.

Probably likes my reaction too.

I sit in my seat until the next class starts to trudge in, contemplating, wondering just who Elrond the Sociology Professor has set me up with.

And wondering if I can really survive a semester with someone like that.

Oh... _college_.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong>: A couple of things about this story before it really gets going...

_1._ I'm adding a disclaimer here to stand in for a disclaimer every chapter. This is a disclaimer for the entire story. So *clears throat* I do not own Death Note; I do not own any of the characters created within Death Note; it would be nice to be financially blessed by this work of fiction, but I have not been legally cleared to receive profit, so... .

_2._ Some of you will be upset about this, but Light will be the main spotlight (besides Maggie) in this story. Also, a great deal of what you will read will be a friendship-based relationship. However, that is not to say that there will not be any romance. Mostly because romance is like crying at the beginning of the Legend of Korra Book 4 season premiere; completely unavoidable. (Many other geniuses will frequent this story; never fear.)

_3. _A main inspiration behind this story is who Light would have been if he had never picked up the Death Note. Specifically, it is inspired by the final episode/chapter of Death Note, when Light is dying and running along the sidewalk, and we see him cross a memory of himself as he used to be. So, before I get messages telling me how OOC Light is in some instances, I want to explain my opinion on the Death Note (emphasis on opinion, because I didn't write the manga so I'm just a speculator). To me, the Death Note operates kind of like the Ring in the Lord of the Rings. The longer it is used or stays in the presence of a single person, the more it screws with that person's head. Now, Light _chose _to use the Death Note and continue using it, and the consequences of his actions are just. However, I think that the taboo-ness of the Death Note (and Ryuk) had a bit of a possession effect; it made Light worse than he would have ever been without it. Also, the Light we knew in Death Note was an immature teenager. He is still an immature teenager in _this _story, but... I'm hoping he'll grow up a little bit throughout it. (Hope.)

_4. _I hope you enjoy this story and I wish you well :) thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm serious, mom, he stole my phone right out of my hands. Like he owned me. I felt _owned_."

I don't know how many college students call up their moms after just a few days of "adult life", but I'll admit to it; I'm a mommy's girl. If I thought I could risk the self-loathing afterward, I'd be balling into the speaker right now about just how much I miss her and dad and my snobby little sister.

But the thought of my roommate walking in and seeing me reduced a snotty, wet-eyed mess keeps my emotions in check just enough.

You see, I just have to live up to the college cliché of rooming with the perfectly stunning roommate. If I had ever attempted to go to a psychic, I'm sure that specific detail would have been in my cards.

Her name is Naomi Misora. The woman every fashion artist begged to model their leather jackets and high heeled boots.

I haven't really gotten to know her yet (yeah, it might be jealousy) but the few conversations we've shared have already proved her queenliness. Her hair, for one; I'm sure she stole it off of Cleopatra's head and surgically implanted the strands into her follicles. It's to die for. If I were a couple levels more crazy than I already am I'd fear not being able to resist the temptation to shave it off in the middle of the night and keep it for myself.

She's nice, to boot.

And super smart.

But not as smart as I'm sure my dandy sociology partner is.

"Imagine a Sheldon Cooper with more social intelligence," I say over the phone, "he's probably a control freak, as seen in the thievery of my cellular, and no one in their right mind would take so many classes in one term unless their brain is, in fact, the size of their ego."

"Hm, is he cute?"

And... that's my mom. Apparently I dated little enough in High School to warrant her extreme anxiety toward the limited field of my love life.

She probably just thinks I'm going to end up an old, single woman with 99 cats.

Which is just a great big ol' boost to my confidence for sure.

"Does it matter?" I begrudge to ask.

"Of course it does. At the very least if you're going to be spending a semester with an egocentric genius, I hope for your sake he's decent to look at."

Okay, so maybe I misjudge her a little bit.

"You have a point there," I say. "He definitely has his perks. Not really my type, though. Too pretty."

"Your type only exists in fiction, Mag."

Nope, I take it back; no misjudgments here.

I sigh my way down to the bed, (which is like five feet off the ground for some reason; I don't know what they thought the average height for women was when they made these) performing the best of my dramatics for the ceiling. "Life really is hopeless, isn't it, mother?"

"When you say it like that it is."

"I suppose," the jingalings of a text notification nearly force my eardrum into hiding, to reveal a message from, lo and behold-

_Light-bulb_.

"Huh, look at that," I put my mom on speaker, reading the text aloud, "_Hey Maggie. How are you?_ Yadda yadda yadda, I like to talk a lot, _can you meet me at the Farha Caf__é__Bar on Gower Street in thirty minutes? I hope you have some ideas for the project!_"

"Really? A café? That sounds kind of fancy!"

"This is London, mom," I say, "everything sounds fancy."

"Well, good luck," she lets out a little sigh (see where I get it from?), "I wish your dad would take me to a café sometimes, but all I get to do is drive your sister to school and buy her tampons."

"Oh man, I'm just so excited to grow up and get married and have crying, pooping babies."

"That's why God made it impossible not to grow up," she says, "because he knew it would suck and that none of us would want to. Love you."

"Yup. Love you too."

When I hang up, the distance becomes real again. I have to get up off my bed and wander around, take a pee, criticize myself in the mirror in order to keep from crying. The last part doesn't do much for me, but I've gotten over the years of staring in the mirror and bursting into hopeless, tyrannical tears. Looks are just whatever by now. I'm not so disillusioned by the mirror to think of myself as ugly, just not the turning heads and hearing catcalls type of pretty. Which honestly isn't too bad. I keep to myself for the most part, anyway.

Though some attention, occasionally, wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

There's a fine balance to be had.

I smile at myself anyway. My teeth are one of my best assets. My smile in general, so I hear. I personally think that it tends to make my cheeks look wide and scrunch up my eyes a little too much, but hey, to each his own.

As long as I remember to put a bra on every day, I'm good to go.

I give my black strands a good tousle (yup, there's that sexy, bedhead look I know) and that's that. I'm about on my way out the door when I'm stopped short; it swings open for me.

And so enters the Queen.

"Oh hi," Naomi smiles at me, making me suddenly shamed by my own. "You going out?"

"Yup," I smack my hands together, "I'm meeting up with my sociology partner."

"Oh really? Where at?"

"Farhaven Café or something like that?"

"Farha?" She corrects me. "That's just on the edge of campus. Have you ever been or do you need directions?"

"He said it was on Gower Street."

Naomi tips her head and smiles, like I just said something cute. "Gower Street is pretty long. I can walk you there, if you'd like. I just got out of class so I need to stretch my legs."

My first thought is to make excuses about how "I'm sure I'll find it", and that "I don't want her to go through the trouble", or that "I'm afraid we'll just walk in awkward silence because I totally don't know what to say to you besides how pretty you are and stuff".

But if I get lost...

Light would be the only person who I could call for directions.

Any awkward silence is worth not having to do _that._

"Sure! I'd really appreciate that."

* * *

><p>The Queen hadn't been lying; Gower Street is long.<p>

The further Naomi walks the more I start to wonder just how far away this café is, and just how big this University must be. At least London's streets are nice to look at, if stone and wrought iron gates against a gray tinged sky are your thing (definitely mine).

The best thing is that the pressure is off me, because Naomi knows her small talk.

"So, your sociology Professor is already doing group work, huh?"

I tip my head back to the sky, watching the clouds swirl in different combinations of gray. Who would have thought that gray could be made up of so many shades and tints.

"You have no idea," I tell the sky, "We have this group experiment that makes up more than half of our final grade. And we're supposed to work on it, _all _semester, with one partner, _all _semester."

"Wow. I see the battle."

"Yeah... and honestly, the guy I'm partnered with seems a little... difficult to work with."

Naomi laughs. "Is that the nice way of putting it?"

"Yes,"

"Hey, I'm not opposed to sitting in on your study date, if you think you might need the support. I've handled most forms of douche-bag at their worst."

The way she says it, I think she must be making a joke, but I have to thank whatever luck is on my side that I look at her face before laughing. She doesn't look upset necessarily, just suddenly distant, like she's reminded herself of something she'd rather forget.

I want to ask, but I don't.

"Here it is," Naomi says.

We stop at another short building stacked by taupe colored stone, at the corner of a four-way intersection. Small windows line the upper floor, barred by black, metal grates, while through the larger windows on the street floor I see tables and chairs, populated by students, pastries, and coffee cups. I don't see Light directly, but that doesn't stop me from staring through the glass at the other students as if they are the cause of my misfortune.

"I was serious," Naomi says, with one fist curved against her hip, "I'll stay with you if you really want me to."

I wave her off, and try to make it look confident. "Nah, I'm good. It's not like he's a mass murderer... I think."

"We'll swap numbers anyway. That way I'm only a few buttons and an excuse to use the bathroom away."

We even swap them the normal way, my phone in my hands and no theft involved.

Such an act of normalcy makes me sad to watch her leave.

I buzz my lips and stare at the outside of the café, waiting to see the windows animate themselves into eyes and the doors spread into an open mouth that swoops down to swallow me whole. I don't know what it is about this guy that makes me want to turn the other direction, but just standing outside the all-seeing glass like a total creeper isn't going to make my situation any better.

I push the doors open with my palm and step inside.

Ground coffee beans make an immediate, welcome entrance in my nostrils. The mere scent warms me from the inside out. I breathe a deep inhale and close my eyes, releasing it like the exhaust from a cigarette. It's when I reopen my eyes and look around that I become disappointed. The interior doesn't quite match the smell, if you ask me. This is definitely a college-owned coffee shop, light taupe walls and ceilings, occasionally broken up by a wall lined in multidimensional brick and wide, curtain-free windows. Laminate planks line the floors, topped with scattered clumps of round wooden tables and matching chairs.

Yup, not as fancy as it sounds.

I look to the far end of the seating area and find Light, sitting with his chair tucked into a corner. He must have some sort of extra-sensory perception to be able to look up the very moment I spot him.

"You made it," he says when I walk up, "When you didn't respond to my text I thought I might have actually forgotten your number."

"Sorry," I say, more out of habit than anything, "I got distracted on the way here."

"By what?"

He gets out of his chair and starts walking back toward the ordering stand, obviously expecting me to follow.

A big part of me thinks about just standing out of defiance, but... .

"My roommate," I follow him anyway, "she caught me on my way out and offered to walk me here."

"Who is your roommate?"

"Naomi Misora," I say, "why?"

"Just wondering. She's in my criminal investigations class. Sharp girl."

I'm initially surprised that his first observation isn't regarding her gorgeousness, but if he really is all brain and no brawn, it would make sense.

Or he's gay.

Also a possibility.

"Yes, she is," I say, and leave it at that.

Light orders a coffee black from a male student in a purple, Farha polo. Then he turns his head over his shoulder and asks, "What are you getting?"

"Uh," I pat my jean pockets and realize, with a sinking, I'm-not-even-getting-coffee-for-this feeling, that my bump in with Naomi didn't just leave me forgetting text messages. "Shoot, I guess I forgot my wallet too."

"I'm paying."

"No," I wave him off, "really, if I can't survive without caffeine for one day that's a problem I need to start working on."

"It's not a big deal."

"Nope, I'm good."

"Maggie,"

"Honestly, I'm fine!"

"Stop fighting me."

"Why?"

"_Order a coffee_."

"Thai Iced Tea, please."

The barista looks from Light to me with a smirk that throws me into true, red-cheeked embarrassment. I'm not usually so vocal in public; causing scenes isn't something I like to do. Accidental scenes happen often enough, and I come out of them feeling like a complete idiot every time.

Light though, he isn't concerned.

Shocker.

"I forgot to ask you what your major is when we first met," Light says, as we wait for our drinks by the counter.

"I haven't decided."

"I see," is his response, and to be honest, it comes off a little judgey.

I'm hesitant to ask the same question of him, but I'm a sucker for social protocol. "What about you?"

"European Social and Political Studies BA."

"That's a mouthful."

"Kind of, huh? Graduating here will get me into placement with the Political Science department at Oxford University, where I'll get my Masters."

The barista hands us our drinks (winking at me in the process, setting my cheeks aflame once again), and we walk back to our table in a silence that is, for me, desired.

But I never expected it to last long.

"So," Light says, swirling his coffee with the straw, "have you thought about a topic we can experiment on yet?"

I don't know why he even bothers to ask; I'm sure he already knows that I haven't given a lick of thought toward our project. Just the audacity of my partner.

Not that I'll tell him that.

"Honestly, no," I say, "just getting into the flow of college classes has been, uh... consuming."

"I was thinking that maybe we could focus on analyzing ethnicity and gender bias in some way. At a school like this, where there are so many different groups and subgroups of races I thought it might be interesting to really see if there is little or more bias in an area where cultural diversity is pronounced. Or we could study how common certain crimes are among University students, and experiment with different people to see the reactions toward their peers when they find out that a student has committed particularly heinous acts, even if we're just bluffing-"

He stops, and it's only when the space between us goes silent that I realize I've been staring out the window, the whole time. I try to cover up my goof as quickly as possible, but he's already noticed.

There's a moment when his eyes blaze out of pure insult that I would intentionally (not intentionally) and indignantly (not indignantly) look bored during his monologue. I give credit where credit is due, though, and he deserves some for not storming out of the café like I thought he might.

The kid has elf-control than I imagined someone with his, ahem, "personality", would be capable of.

"Have I done something to offend you?" he asks.

The question catches me so off guard that I have to sit my chair back on four legs before it topples me backwards mercilessly. "Huh?"

"Since the moment you stepped through those doors you wished you were anywhere else but here."

"No," okay, I fib, a little, "and how would you know anyway?"

"Your body language, for one; you stare out the window hopelessly while I talk, slump your shoulders, never smile. You refused to let me buy you a cup of coffee until I practically forced you to. This project has obviously been the last thing on your mind, and while I understand working with a partner can be difficult, you don't even want to try." His eyes narrow at me the tiniest bit, not to try and intimidate, but almost as if he's trying to see through me. "I've been trying to figure you out since you walked in today and the scenario I think most probable is that you dislike me for some reason."

And just like that, he figures it out. Some of it anyway.

How freaky is that? Most guys are as dumb as a sack of bricks when it comes to even recognizing a woman's emotions, and I was trying _not_ to plaster mine on my sleeve.

"Okay," I slump back in my chair, avoiding eye contact. "It's just that, you came off a little strong the other day. Stealing my phone right out of my hands? Is that some kind of compulsive control need you have going on?"

"That's what you're upset about?"

"Should I not be?"

He actually looks the slightest bit stumped. "Girls usually like that kind of thing."

"... What kind of girls do you know?"

"There are certain kinds?" he laughs a little, and folds his arms against his chest. "To be honest, I didn't have to work very hard to get attention in High School. There were a lot of girls who would practically throw themselves at me, and whenever I tried something like that on them, I always benefited from it. They liked it when I took charge."

"Ohhh," I say, tapping a finger against my temple, "you tend to attract the 'easy' types."

"Is that so?"

"The way I hear it, yeah."

He's smirking now. "So don't do that with you."

"Don't do that with me."

"Right," he takes a sip of his coffee, "I have to warn you though, it's become a habit."

"Yeah," I shrug a shoulder, "I guess most geniuses probably have control issues."

He looks up at me, past the rim of his cup, and there's a grin in his eyes that makes me immediately notice my blunder.

"Genius?" he says.

I nod to the ceiling, giving myself a good slap across the brain, "And egotism. Which I just fed even though the sign told me not to."

Light laughs. "So, what do you think? Do any of those project ideas sound like something you'd want to try?"

"Are you asking me to be honest with you?"

"Of course."

"They bore me,"

His eyebrows raise so high they disappear behind his bangs. "Really?"

Well, at least he still looks amiable, not murderous.

Considering I just made an outright insult.

"Yeah," I say, keeping tabs on his reactions, "look, if I'm going to have to work on a project all semester long, it's got to be good enough to have me waking up in the morning excited to participate. Otherwise, this whole partnership is going to flop. We have to get creative."

"Creative, huh?" he leans back in his chair, arms folded again.

Must be his thinking pose.

"Creative," I nod, "and when I say that I mean out-of-the-box, random, ridiculous creative."

"I can't say that's my style."

"Want to give it a go anyway?"

His expression stays muted, so muted and for so long that it starts to renew my nerves. I have a hard time with people who can do that. I can't keep my reactions off of my face no matter how hard I try, but he's obviously done his homework.

I have no idea what he's thinking.

Which kind of bugs me.

"Sure," he says, finally.

"Really?"

"Why not?" he lifts his shoulders all easy and nonchalant. "It's important to stretch different muscles in your brain, and I can't say random, ridiculous creativity is something I'm used to."

I wave a hand. "Eh, you just need to get into the swing of it."

"How do you suggest?"

Well now... asking me for advice already? Maybe he _does_ have a sense of humility.

"On long road trips there's a game I used to play with my mom," I tell him, rolling my now empty coffee cup around by the straw. "I would say the first two things that pop into my head, and put them together; like purple elephants, something random. Then she would do the same. We'd keep coming up with things and say them, back and forth, until one of us would stall for more than five seconds and lose the game. It might help to get the juices flowing at least."

"Sounds interesting. You start."

"Okay. Fiery Platypuses."

"... Angry clowns."

"Bad Buffalo."

"Blue books."

"Salty bricks."

"Thirteen monkeys."

"Killer notebooks."

"Wait-"

I do wait, for five seconds, before pointing a very proud, very obnoxious finger at him. "I win."

"No-" I stop his protest with a look, "well yes, you did, but that's not what I mean. What did you say before? Killer notebooks?"

"I guess, why?"

He grins. "That's it. Picture this scenario; you're a student on campus, walking through the quad, when you see a notebook lying on the grass ahead of you. Just a simple notebook, nothing around it. You walk closer to it, and the front cover reads-"

"Killer notebook?" I interrupt him. "That would definitely be, uh... creative."

The blasé look that comes over his face is priceless. "I was thinking of something a little less obvious. Death Notebook? No... more like Death Note."

"And how exactly does it live up to its name?"

"Write someone's name in it, and they die."

Suddenly, I see it. And it's brilliant. Dropping a notebook that reads Death Note, watching unsuspecting students pick it up, it would be a riot. The plus side? It fits the project.

We'd be able to see just how many people have it out for someone else.

And which of them would go so far as to write down their names, even if it is just a joke.

"You're an evil mastermind." I say. "I like that."

He doesn't say anything, but his proud smirk lingers until he checks the time on his wristwatch (I didn't think they even made those anymore).

"I'd better get going," he says, packing up his laptop, "I'll be late for my next class. You need someone to walk you back?"

"Only if you're going in that direction."

He holds the door for me on the way out (chivalry _isn't _dead), and asks me which way I'm headed. I point back down Gower Street, the way Naomi and I came.

Light clicks his tongue. "I'm headed the other way. I can be late though, it's not a big deal."

"No," I say, "it is. I'm fine walking back on my own. Thanks though."

This time, at least, he doesn't argue with me. "Alright. I guess I'll be seeing you later, then. Keep brainstorming on the Death Note; I think we really have something going there."

"Yup, see you."

"Bye Maggie."

And who would have thought? He's not so bad after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Author Notes: <strong>Thank you for the reviews, follows, and favorites! They make my day (and promote the occasional 2 am writing spree)!


	3. Chapter 3

Want to know another thing people don't tell you about college? It's that, somehow, despite all the homework and the class attending and the studying we're supposed to be doing, we somehow find the time to spend half our days watching Netflix.

It's the mystifying truth, the insoluble paradox, that by being busy we can somehow, in some way, find more time to still be lazy.

For most students, they just forgo a couple more hours of sleep.

For others, they just procrastinate everything up until the final, few hours, in favor of some good ol' online streaming.

I'm in the latter group.

But I'll go to my grave saying it's not my fault. Netflix has some sort of supernatural ability to induce binge comas at random. There are times, in the wee hours of the night, when I swear I come out of one of those comas with drool running down my chin and at least five hours having gone _poof _into little, invisible time-capsules.

It's a drug.

The only reason why I'm thinking any of this is because I caught myself slipping into another one tonight. I'm lucky when my phone vibrates and the screen lights up with a series of unidentifiable letters, lucky that someone has enough ESP to come to my rescue when I need it.

Light has good timing, I tell you.

I swipe the message off the lock screen with my thumb, and watch it come back to life in a little gray bubble;

_Light-bulb: What are you doing?_

_Me: I was about to get high, but you saved my life._

I don't see him type for a little while. And I mean at least five minutes. He could be doing something else, yeah, (like burying himself in what must be a mountain of homework, the idiot) but I like to think that I stump him sometimes.

I'm nearly jittery with pent-up laughter by the time he texts back.

_Light-bulb: Are you okay? Do I need to come pick you up somewhere?_

I snort. A great big, piggy snort.

_Me: I was watching Netflix. About to get high on probably a thousand episodes of Supernatural. Gotcha!_

The typing bubble lasts a good while.

_Light-bulb: I should have known. Well, as long as you're not turning into a pot-head, do you want to come over to my flat and we can work on the Death Note? I think you'll like some of the specifics I've come up with. _

_Me: That remains to be seen. Sure. Where do you live?_

_Light-bulb: Ann Stephenson House. First floor, second flat. And just as a warning, my flat-mate is kind of odd, but he probably won't bug us._

_Me: Duly noted. Alright, I'm on my way._

* * *

><p>I have to take a bus route a couple miles up to Camden Road to reach the sign in red; <em>Ann Stephenson House<em>. It's an extension of a whole bunch of other student houses, about five floors and maybe a little more than fifty flats, with a tiny bit of variation in the window detailing. Otherwise, it looks like a normal college housing unit, although I've heard that this one rarely accommodates freshman.

This _is_ Light we're talking about, though.

I let myself in through the front door leading down a hallway of numbered flats, and give a few good raps on door number 2. Light answers almost immediately, in a pair of sweat-pants and a white t-shirt, which is a surprise in and of itself.

I was starting to believe he _slept _in sweaters and khakis.

"Come in," he says, stepping aside to let me through.

He leads me down a short and squat hallway, drab carpet providing a thin pad beneath my now bare feet, toward a door that reminds me a lot of lunch-room entrances at public schools.

"So, about my roommate..." Light trails off, as if he can't quite decide what to say.

"You said he's a little odd," I shrug my shoulders, "more odd than you?"

"What? I'm not odd."

"Uh huh,"

Light stops at the door, leaning against it as if to prevent me from going inside without his permission. "What I was going to say is that we'll probably be working in the kitchen, and he's getting a snack, so I don't know how long he'll be there."

"I'm sure it will be just fine."

But with the way he's acting, I'm not so sure. Light's determination to give me a heads-up is making a lot of interesting character profiles swarm through my head. Is this roommate a pervert? A junkie? Will he stalk me if I interact with him too much?

Is he Light's boyfriend, and Light just doesn't know how to tell me?

So many possibilities.

And then Light opens the door-

Just looking at the guy leaves me with more questions than answers. I think that somehow, somewhere, mad scientists have come up with an ability to mix frog and human DNA, and I'm witnessing the results of that experiment perched upon a wooden chair. He has the eyes, for sure; roundest eyes I've ever seen. They stare down at a piece of chocolate cake with an unblinking, predatory stare.

I'm terrified they might pop out of his skull.

"Ryuzaki," Light says, "this is Margaret Buehler, but she prefers to go by Maggie."

"Hello," I raise my hand in an almost-wave.

There's a _long_, dreadfully awkward pause, before he opens his surprisingly less-than froggy mouth and says, in a voice just above a whisper, "Nice to meet you."

I look at Light, and I smile, mostly because I have no idea what else to do.

Light just mouths, _I told you_.

"What did you tell her?"

I blink more times than this Ryuzaki character probably has in his entire life. How did he know what Light mouthed? I never saw him take his eyes off that slice of cake for a second.

"Don't worry about it," Light says.

Oh so slowly, Ryuzaki pinches the stem of a fork between his thumb and pointer finger, pointing the tongs toward the slice, almost as if he's scared it might jump off his plate.

I've never felt so much anxiety watching someone eat.

Then, like a frog with its tongue, (I'm sticking with that theory and no one can stop me) he snatches a frosted edge and devours it.

"Yes," Ryuzaki says, between chewing, "it probably is of little significance."

He cuts off another piece of cake and eats it, this time with less apprehension.

I look at Light again, (his nose is twitching ever so slightly), and that's all I need to pull up a chair and sit across the round table from Ryuzaki.

Forget the Death Note; I want to know more about this guy.

"So, Ryuzaki," I say, as Light begrudgingly takes a seat too, "Is that an Asian name?"

"Yes, it is."

"So you're Asian?"

"No, I'm not."

He speaks in such softly monotonous tones, that he must be bored out of his mind. I have to second guess that idea, though, because if anything, it sounds completely natural.

But I bet I know a way to find out.

"Huh," I say, and lean forward over the table, with my chin in my palm, "so tell me, have you ever undergone a genetic mutation?"

"Not that I am aware of."

"Then are you currently suffering from hemorrhoids?"

There. He finally looks up.

In the next instant, his arm overextends to point a finger inches from the tip of my nose. I nearly throw myself backward, but a good, stable grip on the table's edge keeps me together. I watch with crossed eyes as that finger stays steady, wondering what on my face he's pointing to, and why.

It's only when he lets his arm rest that he says, "You have an eyelash on your cheek."

He points to his own left cheek, and I follow the movements of his finger, a black lash catching onto my prints.

"Thank... you?" I say.

"You're wondering why I sit the way I do." Ryuzaki says, wide eyes finally giving me the time of day. "If I were to sit normally, my deductive abilities would be limited significantly."

I nod, letting my amusement write itself on my face. "Oh, and you need to deduce how to properly eat your cake?"

"I suppose that's one way to look at it."

"Ryuzaki," Light butts in, "would you mind leaving Maggie and I to do our work in private?"

"No," I say, "let him stay! This is his flat too. Maybe he can give us some input?"

A black clump of Ryuzaki's hair, (and I thought I had bedhead) falls into his eyes. "Input on what?"

Light gives me a look, a very firm, practically parental look, mouthing, _No_.

So I mouth a, _Yes_.

_Why?_

_Because!_

My partner looks up to the ceiling, opens his mouth, and releases a nearly silent sigh.

And all of this Ryuzaki watches, his eyes now less poppable and more heavy-lidded. Mixed with the dark circles beneath, his whole expression gives off the feeling of a man who hasn't slept in days.

"It's our sociology project," I tell him, "Light and I came up with the idea of a notebook that can kill a person, simply by writing in their name. We haven't discussed any details yet, but Light came up with the name Death Note, and we thought that we would drop it in the quad and record people's reactions to it."

"Mmm," Ryuzaki parts his lips with a thumb, "and what is your theory?"

"That more often than not people's curiosity or ill intentions will surface when they see an opportunity like what the Death Note presents," Light says. "In other words, that more people will write in someone's name, whether they believe the book to be supernatural or not."

Funny. I don't remember deciding on that theory... .

Terse silence replaces every bit of conversation we had going, all of it between Light and Ryuzaki. There's a sudden, miles long distance between myself and the two boys, and though I can't recall ever being figuratively kicked out of the room, (thanks a lot, guys), it makes sense.

I'm on the bleachers watching a battle of the geniuses.

I can't help the smile that spreads over my lips, though I try to hide it by pursing them together. It probably doesn't help; I'm sure my expression looks anything but natural.

More like post-botox injections from the feel of it.

"It's an intriguing experiment," Ryuzaki says, "however, it's execution and theory are simplistic at best."

Ryuzaki: 1.

Light: 0.

Light crosses his arms, "how do you figure?"

"If I were you, I'd take the Death Note into an entirely more advanced field of investigation."

"Maybe, but seeing as how you are not a partner in this project, your opinion lacks merit."

Tie-game.

Damn, I need some popcorn for this.

"Assuming that my opinion lacks merit simply because I am not an enrolled member of your sociology course is rather a close-minded idea. Most especially for a freshman."

And Ryuzaki pulls the freshman card.

Things just got real.

"I'm open to the opinions of others," Light says, "and besides, you're a freshman too."

"I never said I wasn't."

"What's your idea then, Ryuzaki?" I ask, and receive all of Light's rusty-eyed malice for it.

I'm really not picking sides here, just... stirring the pot a little.

And if Ryuzaki's ideas match his character in the least bit, they'll be interesting.

"It would be interesting to record just how many people turn to supernatural explanations when in a state of anxiety or fear." Ryuzaki begins. "We know that primitive societies always turned to supernatural forces within nearly every sector of their lives. However, 21st century humans do not differ greatly. There are many objects and rituals that are considered taboo, and many people believe in their powers simply by word of others. So, how difficult would it be to introduce an object with seemingly supernatural abilities and make the average person believe in it in the space of just a few months?

"Perhaps, the Death Note (if presented in a believable manner) could be the tool to give us a clue. If it were to be dropped at random over the course of, perhaps, a month, rumors would begin to spread. Students who saw or were curious enough to look within the Death Note would tell their friends, and if considered a story interesting enough, would be spread to other friends. Then, a strange thing happens; a student dies. Dies in the exact manner in which the Death Note claims to kill. Then, those who knew of the Death Note would consider it an oddity worth mentioning. More rumors would spread. Eventually another students dies in the same, exact way, and people start to worry.

"A couple of deaths and time lead us to a concluding moment; a lock-down. Just a single classroom will be told that a killer is on the loose, that students are dying left and right, when in fact this is just a scenario and this classroom alone is the participant. What would they do? Would those who knew of the Death Note blame it for causing the chaos, and how many?" Ryuzaki finishes the last bite of his chocolate cake. "That is how I would go about it, anyway."

For a moment, we all just sit and blink at one another (except for Ryuzaki, who just stares absently). Even Light, from the looks of him, is a little amazed, a feat not easily accomplished.

And of course, me being me, I would never attempt to hide my pure, unequivocal, dumb wonder.

"Wow..." is all I can say, all I can muster after that perfect, eloquent speech from a man who looks as if he's never seen the light of day.

But Light isn't playing along. "As much as your proposal intrigues me, Ryuzaki, there are too many unconsidered downfalls. First of all, if we had students pretending to die they would have to go into hiding until the experiment is over. What would they do about schoolwork? And secondly, an even greater challenge would be to try to do this without getting the police involved. If they get calls about students dying when it's really just a hoax, we're going to get into a whole mess of trouble. It just wouldn't work."

"Yes, I can see your concern," Ryuzaki chews on the tongs of his fork, "however, I wouldn't worry. I'm sure if you go to the police and inform them of your experiment, they will be obliged to help. In fact, I guarantee it."

"Guarantee it?" Light says. "How could you guarantee something like that?"

"I also know several individuals who would be willing to fake their deaths. Don't worry, they aren't students; they will just be masquerading as such. You can have your own team of participants, or a task force, if you will."

"What?"

Ryuzaki's feet touch the floor for the first time, and he pulls himself up into a slouched stance, making his way over to the sink to deposit his plate. "Just come up with the details of the Death Note and we'll continue from there. Remember; make it believable. As believable as a supernatural, killing book can be... ."

"Wait, Ryuzaki-"

The skinny, slouching man, pale as death and topped with a shocking mess of black hair, cuts off Light's protest with a little wave of his hand and the kitchen door at his back.

Light jerks a thumb back at the door and says, "Does he really think we're just going to go with that?"

"Oh, come on. He has a point. I don't think any project could get more well-developed than that."

"He believes we're going to drop everything for his ideas. I personally don't want to prove him right. Didn't you say yourself that you shouldn't feed an ego when the sign tells you not to?"

"Hm? What sign? I didn't see a sign."

Yup, I get one of those looks again; the "you can't fool with me/stop acting stupid" look. I'd usually be offended if someone stared at me like I'm wasting all the fresh air in the world just by breathing, but Light makes it entertaining.

He's just full of Kodac moments.

"Let's just draw out the specifics of the Death Note, as was originally planned," I hold my hands out and pause, just to make sure I don't have to whip out a white flag or anything, "and see how we feel when we meet his posse. Good?"

The boy wonder makes a noncommittal grunt.

I take back every negative thing I said about this project; it's going to be _fantastic._

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Sometimes this writing thing is harder than it looks. Brain no work sometimes. If you were wondering why the story summary was tweaked just a lil' bit, it's because of above, L-related rantings. He came up with stuff and I listened *insert cheesy smile here*.

And yes, L goes by Ryuzaki.

And yes, sometimes my writing has a purpose.

Thanks for reading!


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